Cooling Off
by i'mpeckable
Summary: Sometimes, siblings are the worst people to work with.  Character Sketch, TV verse.


Cooling Off (the B-side)

Scott wasn't sure how they'd ended up by the pool. Normal after-mission procedure was to square away the 'birds, clean up, and then meet in Dad's office for after-action reports. There wasn't a direct route from the hanger to the office that went past the pool.

Maybe it was the smoke from the fire, creating a need for fresh air. Heaven knows it had been a big one, and Scott could smell it on himself as well as on his brothers. The fire itself hadn't been too bad, but the heavy, noxious smoke had made things difficult enough that the company involved had called in International Rescue. It certainly had something to do with Gordon, for his mischievousness had been cranked up to the max all day, mission notwithstanding.

For whatever reasons–or all maybe of them–Scott had had enough. He stopped, allowing Virgil and Alan to file past him. Both halted soon after doing so, sensing—with the innate sense of siblings—that something was in the works.

Gordon had been following Alan absently, his thoughts obviously elsewhere. _Probably plotting something new,_ Scott groused silently He waited until Gordon had caught up to him, grabbed his unsuspecting brother by the shoulders, and swung him toward the pool.

Gordon's eyes widened abruptly, as he felt Scott's hands on his shoulders. But realization came too late, as his inertia plus Scott's momentum sent him sailing toward the water. Gordon hit it with a resounding, yet satisfying, splash. His cap floated momentarily on the water, a small blue-and-orange boat, then sank after him in an undulating movement.

Scott watched, reassuring himself that Gordon recovered sufficiently to resurface. He inadvertently caught Virgil's expression, complete with raised eyebrow, and shrugged in response. Gordon had been a pain in the ass, both on the mission and the return trip. _He would have driven _Kyrano_ nuts,_ Scott thought in justification, and headed into the house for a well-deserved cleanup.

"Scott!" Gordon's head broke the surface with an angry yell. Treading water, he glared at the remaining brothers, as if they were to blame for his situation.

Virgil spread his hands in a gesture of innocence, and then grinned. "Your fault, Gordo," he said, "You know better." He turned and followed Scott into the house. Alan shot Gordon a sympathetic glance–mixed with a _better-you-than-me_ look–then hurried after Virgil.

Gordon sent a wave of water after them. It got nowhere near Alan, but he felt better all the same. It was getting harder to tread water, though, and he wasn't quite ready to get out of the pool. But uniform really wasn't designed for swimming in. _Have to talk to Dad about that. _He tried floating on his back, but that lasted for all of a second before his feet pulled him under.

Taking a deep breath, Gordon submerged, and reached for his boots. _ There was a reason bootjacks were invented; _it was a real struggle to get the darn things off underwater. It took him three more gulps of air before he worried the first boot off.

He surfaced, and threw the offending boot–complete with sock–on the deck of the pool. It landed on one of the deck chairs, ringing like an explosion in the still of the night. Gordon ducked beneath the surface, instinctively hiding. _Yeah, right. As if you can hide in the middle of a swimming pool._

But no one came to investigate the source of the sound. He came up, took another deep breath, and then went after the second boot. This one came off easier than the first, causing him to fumble and drop it. He watched it tumble to the bottom, and shrugged. _I'll get it later, _he thought, and headed up for air

Removing the boots had helped; they weren't dragging him down anymore. But the sash kept floating up in his face, and rest of the uniform was feeling definitely waterlogged. He glanced toward the house, dark except for a faint light in the kitchen. The last of the sunset had faded, his brothers were probably still cleaning up from the mission, and the thought of after-action reports was remote in his mind.

Gordon submerged once again. The sash came off next; although–thanks to Scott–he'd have to dry out and thoroughly clean the gun. And the cartridges were probably useless now. Still, the whole thing came off easier than the boots, and he flung it toward the deck. It slapped against the edge and hung there, half in and half out of the pool.

The shirt peeled away from him reluctantly as he tugged over his head, wrapping around his head like an octopus. He finally wriggled free of it, and broke the pool surface with a gasp. _Miscalculated there a little,_ he thought, gulping for air. The shirt floated halfway between surface and bottom, looking like a drowning person, and Gordon seriously considered leaving it there for Scott to find.

_Might as well go for broke,_ he thought, ducking under one last time and removing the pants. He came up again, and threw them after the sash. But the throw lost momentum quickly, and they floated only a few feet beyond his reach.

_That's better._ He struck out in an easy crawl, trying to swim as noiselessly as possible. One lap became two, two become four, and they stretched into a meditative eternity, broken only by the variance of the strokes he used, and an occasional surface dive.

It was while resurfacing from his most recent dive, that a voice broke the silence of the night, calling his name.

His father stood at one edge of the pool, watching him. "You missed after-action."

_Uh-oh. _Guilty as charged, Gordon swam slowly toward him, killing time. "Um. . . ." he said.

Jeff looked down at his son, clinging sheepishly to the pool side. He glanced over the pool, noting the sash and one boot on deck; and cap, shirt, and pants floating forlornly but separately. Struggling to hide the smile, his gaze returned to Gordon as he said, "You could have left your things on the deck."

_I could've,_ Gordon thought, belatedly wondering why he hadn't, instead of struggling to remove everything while in the water. "Um . . ." he repeated, "Ah, Scott, . . . ah. . . ." Sheepishly, he met his father's eyes. "I was already in the pool?" he offered.

"Uh-huh." The smile broke free from its bonds, growing into a broad grin. "Well, I've no doubt your uniform's clean," Jeff said, "Although it might fade from all that chlorine. As well as. . . . " he gestured the solitary boot on deck.

Gordon grinned in return–and relief. "I'll dunk the other one," he offered.

Jeff shook his head in mock dismay. "Don't stay too long," he admonished, as Gordon dove for the sunken boot. He watched his son moment longer, then returned to the house.

_Fini_

Author's note: Ah, the inevitable question. (_Grins_) Use your imagination, 'cause Gordon won't tell.


End file.
